


City of Change

by suicidallyreckless



Category: Actor RPF, Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Conversations, First Time, M/M, Modern Royalty, Original Character(s), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suicidallyreckless/pseuds/suicidallyreckless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a delicate game, Chris pretending he's not a journalist and Tom pretending not to be a prince. Had it been any other way, none of this would have ever happened. </p><p>Based on Roman Holiday with a dash of Before Sunset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Detachment

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [City of Change：城无定数](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3847378) by [Maryandmathew](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryandmathew/pseuds/Maryandmathew)



_Tom_

 

The Ritz Madrid was nothing short of royal extravagance. Obvious, then, why a prince had made reservations. Not the prince himself. That would be absurd. His personal assistant made twenty minutes of arrangements during a nine minute phone call last month.

No, the prince himself did what he does best: he showed up.

Tom entered the gold and marble lobby eyes down, hands in pockets, a yawn slipping out. On his left, nighttime bodyguard Isaac followed carrying several bags of luggage. The aforementioned assistant, Britta, chattered away to his right.

“Next month is that peace summit we’ve been talking about. I finally got an agreement to let you sit in.”

Tom looked back at her. “On the summit?”

“The dinner afterwards. The king is in the summit itself. But that’s neither here nor there, cameras are only allowed at the dinner.”

“Right, how silly of me.” He went back to studying the floor, shoulders a touch lower than they were a moment ago.

“It’ll put you in a good position for the French tour in the fall.” She glanced around the lobby. “The owner should be here to greet us--oh, there he is.”

A substantial man in a sharp Balenciaga suit strode toward them, resplendent even past eleven o’clock at night. Tom cast a hand through his wavy hair. It was lifeless, borderline unruly. Britta had suggested a brief once over when they left the plane which Tom, in a show of humility, dismissed outright. But all that went through him now was a vain stab of embarrassment.

The owner put his white teeth and dimples on proud display. “Your highness, may I say it is an honor to accommodate your party for your stay in Madrid. I am the owner and manager, Mr. Flores, and I will be escorting you to the presidential suite this evening.”

“I am so impressed with what you’ve done here,” Tom replied in a way that seemed genuine. “We’re all terribly excited.”

Hand to his tie, Mr. Flores replied, “Thank you, truly. I cannot say what your praise means to me. Allow me to show you to the elevator.”

A bellboy appeared next to Isaac, politely liberating the luggage from him. Mr. Flores provided history and anecdotes en route to the suite, though he failed to lift the fog of Tom’s veiled indifference. The prince knew when to nod and make sounds of interest based on visual cues learned after decades of playing the guest. He could tune him out rather well.

Excluded from the summit. How...predictable. Pathetically so, in fact. A tangle of familiar emotions rose through his chest, squeezed past his lungs, and settled just beneath his heart. He did his best to ignore it while people were around; the flotsam and jetsam would have to wait for some privacy.

The elevator _ding_ brought Tom back to the world and they emerged onto the top floor.

“If you’re hungry, we have one of the most famous restaurants in the city,” Mr. Flores was explaining. “Our filet mignon has received top marks from several well known critics and late flights can cause quite an appetite.”

“Oh, no, that isn’t”--Britta nudged him in the back--“something I usually indulge in, but then I feel rather decadent tonight. Prepared however the chef deems best would be wonderful.”

Mr. Flores beamed yet again. “Excellent. I’ll get one to you right away. And here we are.” He inserted a plastic card into the slot and pushed open the double doors to reveal a suite that would send most people into a rapturous fit.

Russian blue walls. Couches with thick, cream colored cushions. A dark wood coffee table stretched between them. Floor-to-ceiling windows ensconcing a heavy, gilded mirror. Every door lay open to allow glimpses of a circular sitting room and two master bedrooms. The ambiance felt almost seductive, warmly lit by canvas covered lamps and downplayed chandeliers.

Of the five people present, only Mr. Flores outwardly appreciated the suite. Britta led the bellboy to the bedroom, directing him to put the prince’s bags in the right places before unpacking them herself. Isaac hovered by the door making clinical note of the layout. Finally, Tom wandered into the living area and summoned the energy to at least look more than bored.

“It’s flawless,” he said to Mr. Flores. They clasped hands, overeager for different reasons. “I won’t keep you from the hotel any longer. Have a splendid evening, sir.”

“Thank you, your highness. If you have any questions, any at all, the front desk will put you right through to me. Do have a pleasant stay.” Mr. Flores bowed his head once and made a graceful exit, bellboy a few steps behind.

Britta returned from unpacking with her phone pressed between ear and shoulder. Tom slid his hands into his pants pockets, studying the reception area without seeing any of it.

“Give me five minutes, I need to check on my bags in the room down the hall,” Britta said, already halfway to the door.

“Oh, just stay in the other bedroom,” Tom repeated for the tenth time that day. “This two suite business is absurd.”

“When you come up with a reason for sharing a suite the paparazzi will believe, I will.” She shot him a wry look. Isaac followed her out to take his post, closing the double doors behind them.

Tom went listlessly to his designated bedroom. Britta overestimated his appeal to the press, his movements were often found on page six or deeper. A scandal may get him to page four, page three if particularly salacious, but surely that would be the worst of things. Nobody cared about obscure royalty taking tours to glad-hand their more difficult allies. Any article about Tom involved at least one reassurance that there’s a Prince of Denmark, and at least two jokes about Hamlet. Only the British royal family made headlines anymore. Christ, most people thought that family was the last of the monarchs.

Curtains pulled aside, he peered out over a downtown of stern spires and European commerce. Streetlights burned orange and obedient. Streets curved around ancient buildings. Anyone would say Madrid was comparable to New York’s glamour or Paris’ sense of style, perhaps surpassed them. But, in Tom’s eyes, decades of capitols and palaces turned the sheen of luxury into a shameless display of exorbitance. 

It was that horrendous, privileged outlook which poisoned his gut against any sort of dinner.

Right on cue, there came a knock at the door. Tom bid them entry, and a round-faced bellboy rolled in a cart hosting a covered tray. The bellboy announced dinner’s arrival, looking confused when Tom scoffed a rather rude laugh. He left handsomely tipped.

A cut of filet mignon, roasted potatoes, and a bottle of red wine waited for Tom underneath the silver dome. In response, he left the cart in the reception area and hid himself away in the bedroom again. He knew what the food would taste like--the meat soft as butter, the mixture of sweet and russet potatoes infused with paprika, the wine a potent Artadi 2011--and it didn’t sit well with his convoluted mood.

The days and weeks had dovetailed into a tedious blur of scripted civility. Left him drained, unchallenged. But a prince whining about his duties was the height of egotism. His unhappiness simmered while he was too afraid to speak his mind, spineless brat he was. He had to feel repulsed before the inspiration to act would finally strike him.

Therein lay the cycle of his life for the past decade. Boredom turned to self-loathing, self-loathing turned to impatience, impatience turned to frustration, and frustration turned to uncertainty that would culminate in...nothing. Then more nothing, and more and more until the boredom started pooling inside of him again months, even years later. Misery and contempt for his misery on a ceaseless, paralytic loop.

He lost focus just enough to realize someone else was in the room. Britta read from her phone and gestured with her free hand as she rattled off the latest developments.

“...moved it to nine p.m. to compensate. The president of Brazil is in town and wants to give you a gift of some kind, a scepter or a spear. I’ve squeezed in a meeting so you can thank him and graciously decline. It’s a domino effect from there. Long story short: tomorrow’s schedule moved up anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half hour. We may have to play some meetings by ear. That also means the press conference in the morning-”

“--don’t tell me--”

“--is now at seven-fifteen to give us a running start. Wake up call is at five forty-five. I know you hate early mornings but--”

“--the concession was unavoidable, I know.” Tom pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away from the window. “Can we do this over breakfast? I’ve an awful headache.”

“Are you eating well?” It was a question rife with sarcasm; the dining cart, and his full plate, were en route to the bedroom. 

“Please, my sleep aid and something for this migraine. If I hurry I might catch five hour’s rest before addressing fifty reporters who would rather be stalking one of the Hiltons. Please, I beg of you.”

His sincerity verged on desperation. Britta looked disarmed by his expression, one he hadn’t enough energy to cover with an unfeeling mask. Instead his helplessness shown through like some sort of pitiable creature found by the road. She faltered for a second or two, then muttered something that sounded along the lines of ‘yes, your majesty’ while backing out of the room.

Tom pulled off his tie and ambled to the closet, yawning wide now that no one could see him. He disrobed down to his designer boxers, an absurd expense if there ever was one, and left his clothes in the bin. The bed sheets were Egyptian cotton covered by a duvet presumably fashioned from the clouds themselves. He slipped between them and his muscles relaxed for the first time in hours.

Britta re-entered with a tray of water, aspirin, and sleeping pills. He swallowed everything in one gulp and eased back to his pillow.

“A quick note about tomorrow’s conference,” Britta whispered hopefully.

He raised his hand and she fell silent, though not without a small, exasperated huff. Her compassion always had its limits. This was why, despite being roughly the same age, nothing had ever transpired between them. Neither held much affection for the other anyway. Not once had she asked about his increasingly dour disposition, and damned if he knew the first thing about her personal life. They said goodnight and she departed, hitting the lights on her way out.

There in the dark. That’s when the idea came to him.

Once every few months, when Tom was feeling particularly trapped, he would take an empty ice bucket and go down the hall for a refill. By himself. A short walk as his own man, bodyguard willing to give him that much space and nothing more. To anyone else, pointless. For him, life saving.

The bed had hardly warmed when he left it and padded into the closet. The most casual clothes available to him were a pair of Burberry trousers, a blue cashmere sweater, and suede oxfords. He threw them on. If he stopped to think things through he would turn weak and stay put.

The bucket for the wine sat untouched on the dining cart. He set the bottle by the tray and took the empty bucket to the door, stride verging on giddy.

Isaac stood calm and alert right outside the room, turning as the prince emerged.

“I’m off down the hall for some ice,” he said. “Only be a moment.” He left without waiting for a response, though he didn’t expect one in the first place. Isaac was a man of few words.

The walking away part, that was the best bit. Every step increasing the distance between Tom and the suite decreased the tension in his shoulders. The string attaching him to his usual life stretched, pulled taught, and then he turned the corner to the ice machine and _snap_. Freedom.

Tom took his precious time packing as much ice into the bucket as possible. He made it a challenge, dumping the ice if he thought he could do better. At last, with the bucket crammed full of ice cubes, the return part of the excursion began. The worst bit.

A familiar _ding_ came from behind.

An old woman disembarked from the elevator and made her way down the hall. Tom stared over his shoulder at the open doors. They were patient. Ready.

Perhaps the the worst bit could wait.

He dropped the bucket in with the ice and slipped into the elevator. His mind went blank. He was all instinct, a jumble of frantic nerve endings. Reason never stood a chance; soon he arrived at the first floor, walked through the lobby, and into the night air. A new thread pulled tight, this one rooted much deeper.

Tom went down the sidewalk in an oddly sluggish way given the thrills shooting through his body. After crossing the street to a new block, he crossed another. At the next intersection, he turned.

_Snap._


	2. Fortune

  _Chris_

 

Chris’ apartment was nothing short of Spanish economy. Three bedrooms, bland white walls, and flimsy excuses for furniture. A window, cracked in both senses of the word, let the rumble of Madrid’s nightlife waft inside.

He put his phone on speaker and tossed it on the nightstand in the master bedroom. “This is bush league, Alegria. You have something better.”

“I’m sorry,” she said in barely concealed offense. “Which of us is the editor?”

“I’ve been here six months.” He snatched a shirt from the clean pile lumped on a chair, glancing around for his jacket. “I transferred from five years in national news at the Morning Herald. You’re holding out on me like I’m new at this.”

“Because you’ve been here six months. I’ve got reporters who have been here for years, you want me to put them on low-level press conferences?”

Shirt on, he picked up the phone. “Ah, you admit it’s low-level.”

“Far from the lowest, the guy’s a prince.”

“Of _Denmark_. Who knows the first thing about the Prince of Denmark? And it’s hardly an exclusive.” He felt both pockets. No keys. “How much am I getting for it? You won’t put me on salary, so how much? Fifty, a hundred euros?”

“I can’t hand new guys good stories. You have to find them. Frankly, you already should have.”

No jacket, either. He sauntered into the kitchen, phone under his chin, pulling his dirty blonde hair into a low ponytail. The jacket lay strewn on the table. “Can’t find them if I’m stuck doing the same interview as a dozen other blokes.”

“Enough,” she snapped. “Tomorrow, seven-fifteen in the morning, in front of the _Palacio_. Do your job and ask good questions or go back to Australia.”

Chris jabbed the End button and swore under his breath. He’d had that coming. Still, he couldn’t shake the incensed feeling of entitlement needling him in the ribs. Hounding his editor like a desperate prat wasn’t his usual approach, but dammit, he _was_ a desperate prat these days. He hadn’t been able to unearth a decent story since arriving in Spain, and failure like that got under his skin after a couple of weeks, let alone months. At least now he was failing and pissing off his boss at the same time. Top marks for that.

The keys were waiting by the coffee maker next to his thin wallet. He retrieved both, shoved them in his pocket, and swiped his jacket off the kitchen table. Heading to the door, he got a text from his poker buddy, Javier: _You coming, Fabio?_

The poker guys saved ‘Fabio’ for when Chris annoyed them and they wanted to return the favor. He sent a reply ( _on my way_ ) and checked the clock. Already past eleven, and zero money to spare for a cab meant he needed to haul ass.

Leaving the apartment, he jogged the flight of stairs to ground level and went towards the street. Someone yelled his name in a thick, congested accent.

“Senõr Hemsworth! We talk!”

Chris winced. He slowed, started walking backwards, and switched on a dashing smile. “Yes, Senõr Esperanzo, good to see you.”

“You pay me rent now,” he said, waddling to catch up.

“Yes, sir, I pay you rent tomorrow.”

“No tomorrow, Hemsworth.”

“Mr. Esperanzo, I swear to you, I am leaving to get paid as we speak. You will have your money tomorrow.” He dug out his phone, which hadn’t rung, and answered it. “Hello? Yeah, mate, I’m coming for my check.”

“Who pays you in middle of night?”

“Oh, you threw in a bonus? I’m honored.”

“I do not house criminals!”

Chris put the phone to his chest and said to Esperanzo, “It’s nothing illegal, just the news business. We’re a strange beast. Gotta run. Get you that check tomorrow.”

The landlord started yammering in shrill, biting Spanish. Chris turned around in time to teeter on the edge of the curb. He pulled back, saluting a frightened Volkswagen, and hustled around the nearest corner. Mr. Esperanzo’s nonstop tirade echoed after him like the ghost of a parent rising for one last harangue. The guy had good reason--three months of being paid half the agreed rent would put anyone in a bad mood.

*****

It was a fusion of eras, downtown. Aged buildings blended with their centuries younger additions. The atmosphere thrummed with historic appeal, yet held an underlying pulse of innovation. Old and new, flowing in tandem. Not replaced, like America, or stubbornly old fashioned, like many places in Europe. Everything here was enhanced and united under sharp, towering architecture. The result made Chris’ head rush. He may prefer the more cavalier nature of home, but as international assignments went...

A shape caught his eye. He paused while passing the mouth of an alley and looked again. Definitely. There was definitely a man laying face down on the sidewalk, left side off the curb, groaning.

Chris turned a full circle, sure he’d see someone rushing to help their friend/brother/lover. When nobody came to the rescue, that left the heroics to him and him alone.

He shifted his weight, apprehensive. He couldn’t afford a Good Samaritan diversion. His food, clothing, and shelter depended on the poker game a few blocks away. Helping was the stupid option.

So he helped.

He approached gradually, craning his neck to see what he was dealing with. Tailored clothes, high end shoes; whoever it was face-planted on the curb had to be wealthy. Pale too, not Spanish. Chris moved faster; shit would get serious if the guy was a mugged tourist.

“Hey,” he said, crouching to place a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “You alive?”

The man gurgled a slow reply. “Sleep...ill...”

Two words and Chris knew exactly what was happening. He huffed a short breath of relief. “Nah, mate, I don’t think you’ve gotten to the sick part yet. You’re still drunk. ”

He rolled the man onto his back. Solidly shitfaced, this guy. His eyes were all but closed, his face was smeared with grit from the street, and his feeble attempts at movement were pathetic.

“What’s your name?” Chris asked in a loud, clear voice.

The man responded by falling asleep.

“Hey! I need you conscious. We’ve got to get you home.”

Chris, after shaking his shoulders, propped him into a sitting position and did a quick search for identification. None. The guy made some confused moans in the back of his throat, but otherwise gave no resistance to being bandied about by an unknown man. Chris wrapped an arm around his waist and stood them up in a grand swaying motion. The guy’s top half was lead, the bottom half water. They set on a loose trajectory for the corner, and for a step or two Chris thought they’d never make it three feet. He was wrong, they made it to the street, but not without a few strides backward and a long pause for readjustment.

Chris waved for a cab with his free hand. Passersby judged them openly like they had never drank too much in their entire lives. At least not in public. Many Europeans were restrained in that way, dignified and borderline hypocritical. Everyone else was Greek, Italian, Irish, or Scottish.

The man spoke with his head down and lolling side to side. “Meant...walk...”

Chris laughed, hitched him a couple of inches higher. “Nobody expects you to walk. Did I hear an accent? Am I carrying a Brit?”

“M...mother...”

“British on your mother’s side?”

Silence.

Minutes later, a cab finally pulled over: white with a red horizontal stripe down the driver’s side door. Chris leaned the drunk against the car and held him steady with a hand to the chest. The driver lowered his front passenger window and Chris stuck his head through. He asked if the driver was willing to take this poor man home ( _Se puede tomar a este hombre a casa, por favor_?). The driver insisted he receive the fare up front, including tip ( _Muy bien, pero quiero que la tarifa y la punta en la delantera_ ).

Chris asked for a minute ( _Uno momento, por favor_ ) and moved to catch the drunk before he slumped to the curb.

“Where do you live?” he asked, holding the man’s face in both hands. “I’m trying to get you home.”

The answer was unintelligible, his head floating to and fro. Chris yanked him forward. For a brief moment, he had the stranger’s half-asleep attention.

“ _Where do you live_?”

The man’s eyes slid open. A startling blue. Unfocused. And then they were closed again, his head rocking into Chris’ chest.

The driver honked, yelling to give him the money or watch him leave ( _Dame el dinero o me voy_ ), and Chris hesitated. He had precious little money. If he did this, he’d going home with virtually nothing left. But he had a wasted, unconscious guy in his arms, and ditching someone like that would leave a permanent mark on his conscience.

He tossed his wallet in the passenger’s seat. Piling both himself and the drunk into the taxi, he gave the driver his address.

*****

_Small problem. Can’t make it tonight._

_It’s cool, Fabio, we’ll take your money next week._

Chris threw his phone on the wobbly nightstand and rubbed his forehead. He had piled the drunk into a chair in the kitchen, who then laid his head down on the table and didn’t move another muscle. Afterwards, Chris went to his bedroom to kick off his shoes and stare at the remaining twenty euros in his wallet.

Fuck.

Chris Hemsworth, always taking the gamble. On cards, soccer, stories, and people. Funny thing, how well it worked. How _long_ it worked. And despite being headed for the streets in a day or two, he was still loathe to admit his lucky twenties had turned into anemic thirties. Tomorrow had to go one of two ways: Either luck gave him a final nudge and a huge story fell in his lap, or he begged Alegria for jobs. Any job. Petty theft. Concert reviews. Celebrities. He paled at the idea, a hole the size of his pride opening in his stomach.

The guy in his kitchen had the right idea for tonight: drink until incoherence is not an option. But first, Chris had to get his guest to the bed.

No, first the guest needed a name, at least until he was awake to share his real one. ‘Rent’ was bit too...whorish. ‘Fabio’ too spiteful. He settled on ‘Adam.’ Adam worked for now, even if he wasn’t technically the first guy Chris had brought home.

He went into the kitchen and clapped his hands together. “Alright, up you go,” he said. “You get the bed, I get the couch.” Adam whimpered a fuzzy reply. “No need to thank me.”

They staggered into the bedroom. Adam bumped into the door frame and gave no complaint. Chris veered them away from the closet, gathering momentum towards their goal. He didn’t know who’s foot bumped what, but suddenly they pitched forward and landed in a heap on the mattress.

“That’s fine, allow me,” he grunted, sliding from under the dead weight.

He wanted to throw a blanket over the guy and call it a night, and he almost did. But it occurred to him that a man of Adam’s financial status probably didn’t sleep in their seven-hundred dollar pants.

Off came the shoes and socks, then belt, pants, and the sweater Chris felt was genuine cashmere. The event was unceremonious, and he preferred it that way. Better than Adam waking up furious over a misunderstanding.

He threw the covers over his guest and reached for the lamp by the bed.

“You...dissmus...” Adam slurred, voice never climbing higher than a whisper.

Chris leaned in closer. “Say again?”

“You’re...diss...missed...”

He grinned. “Why thank you, sir.”

Lights out, his thoughts zeroed in on the vodka in his freezer.

*****

Eight o-clock in the morning. Chris rocketed from the couch and jumped into the shower for the fastest scrub down in history. The press conference was at seven-fifteen, he’d missed the entire event. He’d have to sprint to the office, check in with Alegria, and what? Make like he had just come from the _Palacio_?

Yes. Make like he’d just come from the _Palacio_. It was a garden variety conference, the broad strokes easily faked until he got specifics from another news site. The Prince loves visiting Spain, he has a fondness for the people, he hopes their countries can do great things together, etc, etc.

Toothbrush in his mouth and towel on his head, he opted for the clothes he slept in over going into his room and waking Adam. Too bad he’d never learn his real name; if it was Chris rescued from the street while pissed, he’d bolt the second he could walk. Adam would likely be gone before he returned.

Chris, head aching, literally ran into work. He found the Sky News floor humming along at an abrupt pace. Interns walked back and forth, tapped dozens of keyboards senseless. He slowed to a walk as he neared Alegria’s office. Caught his breath. Rolled his shoulders. Wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead. He messed with his phone as he walked through Alegria’s door.

“Good morning, Chris,” she greeted in a way where you weren’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not. Her long legs rested on her desk, iPad balanced on her lap. The skirt of the day was an inch too short for a woman her age, the heels an inch too high, and she looked damn good.

He didn’t glance up, had to maintain the illusion of a full plate. “Morning, thought I’d swing by to give you a run down on the press conference.”

“Oh?”

“It’s what you’d expect; he thinks Madrid is beautiful, he wants to improve relations. He seemed a little annoyed, but who isn’t at seven in the morning.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Right. I’ll be at my desk for an hour, have the piece on your desk by then. Call if you need me.”

One foot out the door.

“Chris.”

He made eye contact, ears pricking at her severity. “Have something for me?”

“The prince is sick. He canceled his entire schedule for the day.”

A few beats of silence went by. The nice, heavy rock of embarrassment forming in his throat made him cough. It had to be a record, the time taken between hatching a plan and having it explode in his face.

“I believe I should apologize...” he began, hoping he seemed as contrite as he felt.

Alegria didn’t give him the chance to go on. She stood from her desk and made her way to him, iPad pointed threateningly. “Are you telling me,” she said, closing in. “That you missed your assignment, didn’t know it had been canceled, and came here to cover your ass?”

He was at a loss. “I did, yes.”

“What did I tell you last night? This was your last shot. Did I not make myself clear?” She poked her iPad to life and waved the screen in his face. “It was a simple press conference, Chris! And it’s not everyday you talk to royalty. You’ve been giving me shit about big stories for weeks and you couldn’t make it to this one interview?” She saw his blank expression. “You better be listening to me, goddammit.”

But he wasn’t.

Her iPad displayed a quick article on the prince, the cancellations, and his illness. On the left was a picture--Tom Hiddleston, Prince of Denmark.

The same man who was currently sleeping off a night of binge drinking in Chris’ apartment.

Chris grabbed her iPad. “Is that him?”

“Oh great, you’re not preparing either.” She shook her head and went back to her desk. “Clear out, Chris. You’re done here.”

“Wait. Listen, I’ve got this guy--on the street--I’ve got him--” He was already eight steps ahead in his mind, everything jumbled together in a mass of shock.

“I said clear out.”

“No!” His excitement surprised them both. Handing the iPad to her, he pointed at the picture with his free hand. “I know where he is. I can get an exclusive.”

She put the iPad on her desk, jaw tight. He watched the conflict flicker across her face. Was she a responsible boss, or a hungry editor? They both knew the answer, regardless of how much she wanted to fire him.

Alegria’s stare pinned him in place. “Are you fucking with me?”

“I’d stake my job on it.”

“You _are_ staking your job on it. What kind of exclusive?”

“What if I got you everything? Politics, skeletons, all the good shit. What’s that worth?”

“He’s an obscure figure...”

“Not when I’m through with him. What’s it worth?”

She had to push the words from the back of her throat. “Ten thousand.”

“Done.” He offered a firm hand.

She accepted with a brief squeeze. “This better be real, Chris.”

He was already gone, saying, “Very real, my love,” loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “Very fucking real.”

 


	3. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to beta this fic, drop me a line! Just for SPAG, and it shouldn't be time consuming at all.

* * *

 

_Tom_

 

Egyptian cotton had never felt quite this coarse. His pillow wasn't right either. Less cloud, more lump. Rolling into the middle of the bed, Tom stretched as he fluttered awake.

Wait.

He pushed up onto his elbows. Bright lights and asphalt swam through his head. Ice. A hallway. A hotel room. Memories of climbing into bed, then out, but not back in again. No, hold on, he was going backwards through what happened. Forwards? He squinted at the wall across from him, a hairline fracture ran down the left side. This was not Ritz Madrid.

Someone, a man he remembered as blond but nothing else, had brought him here after...Oh, lord. The sleeping pills.

Tom covered his eyes as the embarrassment bloomed. Stumbling through the streets. Trying to ask for help with increasing difficulty speaking. Collapsing out of view in a delusional attempt to save some dignity. Every moment surfaced with enough clarity to make him feel patently ridiculous. Were he recognized, media outlets would have turned him into a farce, whatever scraps of a reputation he had earned blown away.

 _Wait_.

The Prince of Denmark had been missing since eleven o'clock last night.

Tom flung the covers off. Two steps from the door, he felt a slight chill and looked down. Curious. He failed to recall undressing for bed. He cast a glance over the room and went straight for his clothes. They hung over the back of a chair next to a pile of someone else's shirts. Simultaneous rudeness and consideration, how interesting. He dressed.

The apartment looked unlike any home he had ever visited. Decor was sparse, the color scheme barren, and even with three bedrooms the square-footage verged on oppressive. He may as well have the whole of Denmark as his playground compared to this level of housing. The whole thing made him feel queasy. Schooling made him educated on the plight of the poor, the trials of homelessness. Charity functions gave him the illusion of altruism. Yet he had never climbed down from his pedestal to experience how the majority survived. Not once.

The miserable part was how he realized this while poking his head into each room in search of his host, unhindered and unfazed. He'd been waking to his unique privileges for years. Until last night it had done nothing but deepen his sense of ineptitude.

No one was home. Strange, given the circumstances. He found a laptop on the couch and, if not for his immediate need to see the damage his absence had caused thus far, he'd have left it alone. His brow raised at what the internet revealed: Prince of Denmark Sick, Cancels Agenda. The lie made political sense, of course. The public wouldn't believe a prince had abandoned his post to mingle with the commonfolk. Too fairytale. Any other explanation involved a presumed abduction. Illness was the one excuse that saved face for everyone involved.

Tom breathed a little easier, closing the laptop and heading into the kitchen. A bowl of apples and pears sat near the refrigerator. He chose one of each, to be repaid once he returned to life as knew it.

The shower situation proved grim. Minuscule compared to royal amenities, he felt like he was bathing in a tall coffin.

Using the apartment left a niggling guilt in the back of his mind. The promise of reimbursement was genuine, but he had no permission. How far was he overstepping here? His indulgences—internet, fruit, bathroom—were brief for that very reason. He didn't want the owner returning to find that the man he saved had taken over his space.

Once finished, he milled about the living room. He refused to leave without thanking the man and getting his name. Etiquette dictated right and wrong here, made him a better man than his personal impulses wanted him to be. Were it left to him, he would have written down the address and fled.

His back was to the entry hall when the front door opened. He turned, came face-to-face with a blond man paused in the doorway.

“I'm sorry,” Tom said. “Was I supposed to have left by now?”

He closed the door, smiling. “Ah, you _are_ a Brit. Didn't get a clear answer when I found you.”

Tom's hands found their way into his pockets. He hadn't expected the conversation to begin like this.“On my mother's side. And you're Australian?”

“Sydney and the outback. I meant to be here when you woke up, I'm sorry—”

“—not at all, you've been tremendous help—”

“—must have been a trip coming around in a stranger's flat—”

“—it's my fault entirely—”

“—a right bastard for not finding a way to get you home—

“—you were wonderful.”

Tom wished he'd chosen a different word. The silence that followed may have been a bit less awkward.

“I'm Chris.”

“Tom.”

They shook hands.

“Thank you for your help last night, I'm not sure what happened.” Tom figured playing the fool saved him from providing too many details. He wanted Chris to frame the events.

“We've all been there,” he replied. “I'm impressed, actually. Most guys in your condition are still drunk the next morning.”

Oh.

Well, that at least gave Tom a narrative to work with. “Yes, I'm afraid my head will never forgive me. How did I wind up here?”

“You were unconscious in the street. You had no I.D. so I brought you back to my place.”

“My wallet wouldn't be much help, unfortunately. I'm a visitor.”

Chris brightened, folded his arms across his chest. “What brings you to Madrid?”

“Business,” he answered, clearing his throat. “I escaped for a while, if being drunk didn't make it obvious.”

“You skive like an Aussie. And I mean that as a compliment.” He gestured towards the front door with his keys in hand. “If you're on leave, I can show you some local color. It's best to explore Madrid with a guide.”

From anyone else, the proposition may have been forward. Chris carried enough idealism to make his offers feel genuine rather than intrusive.

“Thank you, but I ought to be getting back. I'm late as it is.”

“Are you sure? I try to encourage bad behavior whenever possible.”

Tom nodded, polite. “I appreciate the offer. Do you have a card? I'll need your address in order to send a check. I must apologize again, I helped myself to some food and a shower.”

“Don't worry about it,” said Chris. “I was in your position throughout most of my twenties.”

“No, I insist. You deserve something for your kindness.”

Chris shrugged in an if-you-say-so kind of way and snatched a take out menu from the coffee table. He scribbled his information on the corner, ripped it off, and Tom accepted. While tucking it into his pocket, he paused for a beat too long.

“What do you need?” asked Chris.

He tilted his head. “Have you always read people like that?”

“I get lucky now and again.”

“If it's an imposition in any way—”

“—what do you need?” Chris repeated gently.

Tom had to look away; his feet were fascinating. “Do you have any euros you might spare?”

They stood in Chris' lacking home and it was the prince begging for money. He had tried to phrase the question in the most unassuming terms, to no avail. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth, his ego shriveling to the size of a dime anyway.

Chris, however, clapped him on the back and took out his wallet. “I haven't stopped by the bank in a few days, is twenty enough?”

“Yes, thank you, that's more than enough. I'll pay you back immediately. Did I say something funny?”

“No, no,” he said, straightening out his grin. He offered Tom the euros. “You've got to learn how to ask for help, mate.”

Tom tried to ignore the note of sincerity in his voice.

They left the apartment, Tom's curiosity apparent when Chris closed the door behind them both and locked up.

“Meeting a friend,” said Chris.

“Did I catch you on your day off?” Tom asked with the proper amount of concern.

“You might say that.”

“I'll be on my way, then. I've really caused you enough trouble.” He shook Chris' hand again. “Thank you, I mean it. Who knows what might have happened if not for you.”

“Take care of yourself, Tom,” he said. He was already on his way downstairs.

 *****

The city's mid-morning foot traffic provided a wealth of entertainment. Street vendors offered everything from traditional cuisine to internationally inspired hamburgers, sushi, and sandwiches. A herd of children crowded into school. Business men and women carved a path so familiar to them they didn't need to watch where they were going. Spirits were high, decorum observed.

Tom passed through, an enamored observer to the people and buildings around him. He had initially wanted to find his shame-ridden way back to the hotel at the earliest opportunity. Calm Britta down, apologize, move on. Fifteen minutes immersed in such captivating daily life saw that plan crumble to dust.

He wandered, on his own, for the first time in his life, at the command of nothing but his whim. The whole of Madrid lay at his feet. The scope of his adventure revealed his trips to the ice machine for what they were: begging for scraps.

On a corner off the main drag, a barber shop sat crammed between boutiques. The overhead sign beamed a vivid red, single pane windows displayed a charming blue interior. A doughy old lady stood on the front stop sweeping, singing, and greeting anyone who passed by. The majority of people waved in return. When she saw Tom her face sparked, not in recognition, but sudden, fervent adoration. He smiled. She caught his arm.

Spanish poured out of her at lighting speed. Versed but far from fluent, Tom raised his hands and replied _no hablo espanol_. His confession excited her even more.

“From England?” she asked, over-enunciating every syllable.

He chose the simplest answer. “Yes, England.”

Pointing to her throat she said, “Voice beautiful.”

“Thank you,” he said, struck by her authenticity.

She touched his chin reverently. “Face beautiful.” Tom had never reddened before, but he may have now. Tiptoes let her reach the top of his head. She wrinkled her flat nose. “Hair not right. Cut hair.”

Tom's laugh burst from his chest. He took her hand from his hair and enveloped it in both of his. “Are you flirting with me for my euros, darling?” he asked.

She beckoned him closer, cupped her hand near his ear. “You I cut free.”

Her sinister giggle sounded like offering free service was the most scandalous thing she had ever done. Tom kept hold of her hand and followed her inside.

Two customers were in mid-haircut. They watched the owner settle Tom into one of the antique barber chairs, fetch a checkered apron, and tie it around his neck. She never asked what he wanted his haircut to entail, and he never gave a single order. The wavy bits always slipping over his eyes had to go. That he knew. But he felt no need to clarify or instruct; it was a miracle of complete trust upon just meeting.

Poised to begin her work, they made eye contact in the mirror. “Your name, beautiful?”

“Tom,” he said. “And what is yours, my dear?”

“Marlena,” replied the barber.

The way she relished her name, each sound and syllable given its due reverence, made Tom smile so wide it hurt.

His hair on the short side to begin with, the cut was more of an artful trim than anything else. When she finished, his hair stood on its own in a natural, modern style. An inch or two 'round the sides, perhaps three on top.

Marlena spun him to face her, admiring her work. “Much better. Yes. Now you are a man.”

Apron set aside, Tom tried to offer her his money. “Please take this for me.”

“No.” She held her hands up. “Too beautiful.”

“But you are far more beautiful than I am,” he said earnestly. “Don't you agree?”

She tucked a few gray hairs behind her ear, leaned in close to him again. “I take half.”

They split the money and said warm goodbyes. Tom's resolve solidified as he left, and his decision became final—he had one day to do as he pleased. Anything. Everything. Just once.

He bought the cheapest sandwich he could find, a ham _bocadillo_ , and went in search of a beautiful place to sit and eat. He came across the _Museo Nacional de Prado_ , an impressive building edged in gold. People waited under flat, square umbrellas to get inside. Beyond the queue, the museum's wall boasted several statues on display in their own personal recesses. He admired them in turn while he ate, comparing the details to those found in Denmark's royal palace, Amalienborg.

Then Chris, of all people, appeared beside him.

 


	4. Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much beta-ing myself right now. Drop me a line on Tumblr (same name) if you'd like to be my beta!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have a spare second. I'm testing the waters with a lot of things in this fic and would love to hear some feedback.

* * *

 

_Chris_

“The hair’s ace, well done.”

He said it like he hadn’t watched Tom go in and out of the barber shop twenty minutes ago. Like he had no idea the prince and the barber had charmed each other beyond all rational thinking. Like he hadn’t been tailing him from the second they’d said their goodbyes.

“Oh, hello,” Tom said after swallowing his last mouthful of food. “You’ve surprised me.”

“I saw you from across the way, too much a laugh not to say anything.” The lie slid easily from his tongue and left no taste of guilt. He was on the clock. Every man for himself.

Tom smiled, gave an unconscious roll of his shoulders. “Yes, I’m working downtown for this trip. Felt a bit peckish after the walk.”

Huh. The royalty wasn’t used to improvising half truths. At least not in this context. Chris thought it was interesting until he remembered: this guy had never run into a near-stranger on the street before. Most or all of his lying had the luxury of being premeditated instead of on-the-fly.

“That’s not entirely true, is it?” Chris teased. He let the ambiguity hang in the air, feeling a twinge of satisfaction at Tom’s glint of panic. “I’d bet good money you’re still ditching.”

Tom gave a breathy laugh. “You’ve caught me. I’m on way back, however.”

“Nah, you should take the whole day. After a pissed night like that you deserve twenty four hours.” He said it so plainly there was no room for hints of ulterior motives.

“Now that you mention it,” Tom began, “and now we’ve met again, I should make a confession. I had taken sleeping pills before escaping from a meeting. I wasn’t actually drunk.”

Pausing, Chris rubbed the stubble on his chin. He should have dismissed the story as a lie. A weak one. All that kept him from doing so was his current role in the game he’d set in motion.

He squinted as if recalling the night before. “That explains a few things. Must have been a wicked dose to make you pass out in the street.”

“Incredibly foolish,” agreed Tom.

“Tell you what,” Chris said like a new idea had struck him. “I can do one better than local color. I was supposed to take a day trip into Barcelona with a friend of mine and he just backed out. If you’re ditching for the whole day you could take his place.”

Tom was pleasantly taken aback. “Are you asking me to Barcelona?”

“If the mood strikes you, sure. You’re already better company than the guy who canceled.”

Chris had invented a hundred cons like this before. Part and parcel of the trade. He needed plenty of time to get all the information he needed out of Tom, and a place where the guy didn’t have to worry about being spotted. A jaunt over to freewheeling Barcelona was the perfect solution.

Tom’s mild reticence lasted a few beats.

“Back by early morning, and I’ll hand deliver you to the real world?” Chris offered. “Or you can always go back now. Your choice.”

“I’ll go,” he said, shoulders square. “Sounds lovely.”

Chris’ smile reached his eyes. “Great then. The train leaves in a little while, the station is back this way.”

“One favor, though,” he asked before Chris could move away. “I don’t feel much like discussing work today.”

“Not a problem.”

They moved to the sidewalk and made way to the station. Lush green trees shaded the street, offered glimpses of buildings. Chris looked at his phone and opened his text conversation with Alegria. He’d asked her for some funds to be spent ‘in pursuit of a story.’ It was the only part of the plan still up in the air, threatening to blow the whole thing apart. No money, no train tickets, no prince.

She replied: _Fine. Depositing one thousand euros as we speak. This is coming out of our 10k deal._

He swallowed a sigh of relief, typing back: _Perfect. You’re gorgeous._

“Friend of mine apologizing,” he said while putting away the phone. “The guy who canceled.”

Tom made a neutral _hm_ sound in his throat. “Have you known each other long?”

“Met him last month.”

“Do you take trips with people to get to know them?”

“Now and then.” Another lie. He’d lost count.

Tom looked impressed. “That’s a terrific way to go about it. Mostly it happens the other way ‘round. This is all new to me, I’m not usually one for impulse.”

“You prefer a schedule.” “I’m not sure I know enough to have a preference,” he said, thoughtful. “Giving into impulse has never been an option.”

“Riding off to Barcelona on a moment’s notice is a decent start.”

“Right, I should be able to form an opinion after today.”

Something in Tom’s attitude had shifted since their meeting at the apartment. Less apologetic, not as wary, a man acting on a decision. Freed by it. A shade or two, at least. Enough to make him more open and not so melancholic.

Chris made a face. “I’ll be the first to admit I hate structure. I’m phobic.”

“I never would have guessed,” Tom said.

He prodded him with a gentle elbow. “You’re having me on.”

“I am,” he admitted without any repentance.

“I like it that way. Keep things interesting, loose.”

“I got that impression five minutes ago when you asked a stranger on a day trip.”

“In Australia, picking someone up off the street makes you brothers.”

“That is precisely how I picture Australia.” Tom tucked his hands into his pockets. “When did you leave?”

“Less than a year ago, I think. I came here for work, but we’re not supposed to talk about that.”

“No, thank you,” he breathed.

The street opened into a large spiral drive, cars circling their way down into a tunnel. Other lanes took those avoiding the tunnel off in every other direction. Chris led the way around and pointed out the massive brick building on the other side. “There’s the station. It’s a bastard to park there, I always walk.”

“I can see why,” Tom replied, following close behind. “Why do you think every city’s roadway system is a different bloody language? Beautiful in its own right, but infuriating for any drivers new to the area.”

Chris assumed, from Tom’s privileged place in the world, that he meant chauffeurs more than anyone else. He put out his arm to keep Tom from walking in front of a slow compact car and said, “It keeps the locals feeling superior and the tourists here longer.”

He made a sound of understanding. “I’ll have to share that bit of wisdom. Will the tour guide be offering other tidbits throughout the excursion?”

“All part of the service. And what he doesn’t know he’ll pull right out of his arse.”

The train station was red brick and industrial save for the wide explosion of greenery running down the middle. While queuing to buy tickets, Chris had to pointedly look elsewhere to avoid Tom’s general astonishment. He had never seen someone so taken with standing in a line among random travelers. There were a few minutes of hustling to reach the train in time. Tom apologized to each person he bumped into, excused himself out of every tight squeeze, and said a perfunctory greeting to everyone else. The royal breeding made them nearly miss the train altogether, and Chris’ laughing drew a few stares as they found two open seats. He let Tom have the window and slid in next to him.

“Your manners almost left us in Madrid,” Chris explained when he saw that Tom wasn’t in on the joke yet.

“It’s my mother’s fault,” Tom insisted. “The one thing that set her off was impoliteness.”

“That would sound strange if it wasn’t coming from a Brit.”

“Ah yes, I can see the day filling with jabs at English and Australian stereotypes already.”

Chris leaned in. “Listen, when taking the piss out of Brits and the Welsh stops being fun I’ll put myself in the ground.”

“The Welsh, certainly.”

“Horrible buggers.”

“Complain incessantly.”

The train drew into motion, leaving the station behind in favor of a streaming view of the city.

“And your father?” Chris asked.

“He’s why my mother prized politeness. He had very little when it came to us, yet unending reserves when he was working. She wanted my treatment of others to be more consistent.” He grimaced at himself. “That was too personal, wasn’t it?”

Chris waved him off like it was nothing. “Where is he now?”

“Working, I expect. We’re in the same business. A family business of sorts.”

Watching Tom trying to sidestep the royal mines in his path was quickly becoming a favorite hobby. “Are you taking his place when he retires?” Chris pretended to catch himself when Tom hesitated to answer. “Nevermind, that qualifies as work. Here, ask me if I’ve ever been to Barcelona.”

Tom quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever been to Barcelona?”

“Several times since I moved to Madrid. Been a while since I hosted a newcomer — we may not hit every sight in one go.”

“I’m not worried about seeing everything, I just want to see something on my own.”

Chris caught the undercurrent of honesty. “I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

“The host is an exception,” Tom corrected.

“You flatter me.”

They were quiet for a while, watching the crammed city outside thin into suburban neighborhoods.

Tom turned back to him. “You know the thing about American accents?”

“They belong to Americans?”

“It’s their hard Rs at end of words. You and I pronounce flatter as if it ends in an A, while they insist on saying the R.”

“You don’t say.”

“Technically, they’re right, but I’ve never gotten used to it. I suppose the English insist on making the H in herb apparent as retaliation. I don’t know what I’m prattling on about, ignore me.”

“It’s a three hour ride,” said Chris. “I couldn’t ignore you forever.”

“I am fascinating, aren’t I?”

“Soft Rs and all,” he said straight-faced.

Tom threw him a wry look to suggest his impishness had not gone unnoticed. “We haven’t gotten to you yet, though. What does your family look like? I’m an only child, my story ends with my parents.” He rested his chin on thumb and forefinger.

“I’m in the middle of two brothers, nothing special.”

“Is it true what they say about middle children? That they put up a fight for attention, try not to get lost in the noise.”

A probing question delivered gently enough to coax a genuine answer. Chris raised his opinion of Tom’s diplomatic abilities as he replied, “There’s no hard and fast rule to my knowledge. I did get into a fight or two, but an angry teenager will do that. Angry twenty-year-olds, too.”

“I’ve never been in a physical fight,” Tom admitted, eyes a bit wider. “What’s it like?”

He had to think for a second; that wasn’t a question often asked in Australia. Everyone already knew. “Completely instinctual. You really don’t realize what you’ve done until the next day when you’ve had time to think about it. A week if you lost.” There was a brief lull that neither filled right away. He glanced down the aisle and started to stand. “Hold that thought, gotta track down the loo.”

“Sure, of course.”

Chris tucked himself away in a restroom the size of a broom closet and took out his phone. He typed everything he could remember so far, from the substantial to the quirks that would add color to the article already forming in his head. A runaway prince who holds a shaky opinion of the king and feels the same about assuming the throne one day? Classically good stuff for only a few hours work. If their easy rapport kept this kind of momentum, he was damn near giddy to think of what he would learn later in the day.

He made sure not to take too long, heading back to his seat with his phone squirreled away. His mouth was open to say something when he saw Tom lost in thought. Not a pondering, carefree sort, either. Introspective, ambivalent. Eyes directed outward as he contemplated something within. Tom watched the world go by in the window. Chris watched him. A frail woman sporting a high bun excused herself past Chris and made him move to the side. He let out a big sigh and plopped down next to Tom, who returned his attention.

“Never been in a fight?” said Chris.

“It’s impolite, you see.”

They spoke on and off for the rest of the journey, mostly on. Easy topics. Getting-to-know-you stuff. During the trip, Chris discovered the following: Tom was an Aquarius fascinated by the concepts behind astrology, though he didn’t lend them much weight. He’s been in a love-hate relationship with chess since age eleven. He’s astounded by modern innovation while stubbornly clinging to some older, analogous ways. He considers himself a realist, a romantic, and a die hard tennis fan. Meanwhile, Chris had managed to keep his confessions to beer, travel, and not having a role model.

“There’s no singular person out there you aspire to be or emulate?” Tom asked. “Or even a few people?”

“I never saw just one or two people as role models. Every now and then I’ll see someone do something and aspire to that specific example, that’s about as close as I get. I take it you have a role model?”

“Princess Diana, above all. ‘I’d like to be a queen of people’s hearts’ is the greatest ideal those in power can strive for. It’s figuring out how to maintain that standard in this current climate which provides the challenge.”

Chis nodded. “Well said. Did you study public speaking in school?”

It was a gentle warning meant to remind Tom not to get carried away with subjects close to his real identity. Chris’ ability to play the fool had limited plausibility.

The twinge in Tom’s jaw suggested the note had been received. “My mother taught effective speaking as ‘passion and clarity.’ Have one without the other and no one will listen, have both and you can bring countries to their knees.”

 _Much better_ , thought Chris. _That kind of double meaning soars right past idiots like me_.

The conductor announced their imminent arrival at the station. Everyone around them shifted in their seats, stuffed away their books and phones, rolled the stiffness out of their necks. Tom laughed quietly to himself.

“Something funny?” Chris asked.

He laid his head back on his chair. “I nearly forgot we were headed anywhere, is that terrible?”

“I won’t tell Barcelona if you don’t.”

The train slowed, then stopped at last.


End file.
